Daily Archives: June 8, 2009

Yanks look to take the series from the Rays before they head up to Boston for the yelling and the screaming and mishegoss. Couple of guys named Andy on the hill this evening.

Let’s Go Yan-Kees.

Our man in Japan’s got a cool blog cookin…

Dig.

My wife Emily took me out to lunch on Saturday. We had a meal at Momofuku and then dessert at the Milk Bar. Both places are full packed full of young Hipster Doofus couples. (What do you call a group of them? Hipster Dufi? Sounds like the name of a second-rate Indie Rock band.) My friend Alex joined us. Emily got the pre-fix, which included a salad of bitter greens with guanciale and orange zest. Alex and I had the pork buns, of course, and we shared a lovely dish of sugar snap peas in a sour cream-horseradish sauce served with thinly-sliced radishes (a variation of the dish is pictured below).

The peas must have been par-boiled. Sugar snaps are so fresh and delicious that you don’t need to do much to them. Chang dressed them up nicely–the sauce was subtle, the flavors still direct and satisfying–without overwhelming them. The peas popped as you chewed them and made me so happy that all I could think of while eating them was ordering more.

I didn’t, since I knew we’d be toolin’ around for the next few hours in the heat. It’s likely that I won’t see that dish the next time I roll through either. The menu changes constantly at Momofuku. In fact, the next day, it was no longer being served.

Savor while you can.

Today’s news is powered by quite possibly my FAVORITE scene in “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” . . . (It helps if you imagine Lonn Trost as the fellow on top of the castle, and any generic dad wanting to take his kids to the game as King Arthur) 🙂

• Bruney elbowing his way back towards the bullpen:

Yankees reliever Brian Bruney took what he called a “huge positive step” on Sunday after completing a 30-pitch bullpen session. Bruney pronounced himself pain-free (yes, we’ve heard that one before, and no, I didn’t check to see if his nose was growing).

To simulate a game, Bruney threw 15 pitches, rested four minutes, then threw 15 more. In his second round, bullpen coach Mike Harkey stood in the batters’ box for several pitches. Bruney expects to throw a similar session again during the team’s trip to Boston.

“I think we’re definitely going in the right direction,” said Bruney, who this season has fibbed about his achy elbow. “I feel good.”

• Steve Serby Q&A’s Johnny Damon:

Q: I thought you were washed up.

A: (Smiles) Sometimes when you hear it enough, you start questioning yourself, and then you find something, you reach down, and you go out and start proving people wrong again.

Q: So that lit a fire under you?

A: When they started saying I was washed up, well, I had a pulled calf muscle. So what helped me start my playing days in baseball was now wrecking it — my legs have always been my most important asset. . . . So as soon as my legs got healthy, I was able to turn it back around

• Rivera battled more than the Rays on Saturday:

For several hours before Rivera took the ball Saturday afternoon in that tie game, he’d suffered with a stomach ailment that brought aches and repeated vomiting, according to one Yankee. Rivera had rolled off the trainer’s table, where he’d hoped to sleep it off, and into the bullpen in the eighth inning, when he began to warm up.

So, no, he didn’t have his best command. And, no, he didn’t have his best fastball.

But, he didn’t sprinkle the Yankee Stadium mound with breakfast, which, in itself, was a small victory, even in defeat.

“He was so upset afterward,” the teammate said.

And yet, Rivera did not mention it after the game, and he did not reveal it late Sunday afternoon, when it would have played less like an excuse than, in victory, the simple retelling of a trying 30 hours. He did not hang those hittable fastballs or that loss on his illness. He did not blame manager Joe Girardi for asking him to pitch in a tie game when a healthier body might have – and probably should have – done.

[My take: A tummy-troubled Rivera was the best option the Yanks had in a tie game in the ninth inning?]

(more…)

Roger Federer won the French Open on Sunday in straight sets. It’s his first French Open championship, making him only the sixth man in history to earn a career Grand Slam. The victory ties with with Pete Sampris for the most Majors of all-time (14).

Here’s the seminal piece on Federer from the late David Foster Wallace (New York Times, 2006)

A top athlete’s beauty is next to impossible to describe directly. Or to evoke. Federer’s forehand is a great liquid whip, his backhand a one-hander that he can drive flat, load with topspin, or slice — the slice with such snap that the ball turns shapes in the air and skids on the grass to maybe ankle height. His serve has world-class pace and a degree of placement and variety no one else comes close to; the service motion is lithe and uneccentric, distinctive (on TV) only in a certain eel-like all-body snap at the moment of impact. His anticipation and court sense are otherworldly, and his footwork is the best in the game — as a child, he was also a soccer prodigy. All this is true, and yet none of it really explains anything or evokes the experience of watching this man play. Of witnessing, firsthand, the beauty and genius of his game. You more have to come at the aesthetic stuff obliquely, to talk around it, or — as Aquinas did with his own ineffable subject — to try to define it in terms of what it is not.

One thing it is not is televisable. At least not entirely. TV tennis has its advantages, but these advantages have disadvantages, and chief among them is a certain illusion of intimacy. Television’s slow-mo replays, its close-ups and graphics, all so privilege viewers that we’re not even aware of how much is lost in broadcast. And a large part of what’s lost is the sheer physicality of top tennis, a sense of the speeds at which the ball is moving and the players are reacting. This loss is simple to explain. TV’s priority, during a point, is coverage of the whole court, a comprehensive view, so that viewers can see both players and the overall geometry of the exchange. Television therefore chooses a specular vantage that is overhead and behind one baseline. You, the viewer, are above and looking down from behind the court. This perspective, as any art student will tell you, “foreshortens” the court. Real tennis, after all, is three-dimensional, but a TV screen’s image is only 2-D. The dimension that’s lost (or rather distorted) on the screen is the real court’s length, the 78 feet between baselines; and the speed with which the ball traverses this length is a shot’s pace, which on TV is obscured, and in person is fearsome to behold. That may sound abstract or overblown, in which case by all means go in person to some professional tournament — especially to the outer courts in early rounds, where you can sit 20 feet from the sideline — and sample the difference for yourself. If you’ve watched tennis only on television, you simply have no idea how hard these pros are hitting the ball, how fast the ball is moving,(4) how little time the players have to get to it, and how quickly they’re able to move and rotate and strike and recover. And none are faster, or more deceptively effortless about it, than Roger Federer.